My Beloved Queen

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

xxxix. the knight and the observer

bystander
// hate does not pause. hate does not think, and yet he is forced now to watch—to wait and ponder. he loves, he thinks, and then he hates all the more.

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Time hastened to stand still. It had no want to move, and whatever cause it had once carried lay now upon the floor at Isil's feet. The king might keep the queen for an hour or a day, but time cared not to keep track. It had curled itself around Isil's heels, and there it sat, coolly content to watch the door, to wade in the shallows of its ignorance.

Pins pressed at the soles of his feet, and an itch spread up his fingers, but movement dulled the ache, so he paced. Back and forth, and forth and back. The statue of Edite watched him, and for a moment, he paused and glanced up at it—stared back at those stony, unfeeling eyes and the smooth face into which they'd been cut. The dust shimmered about her head, and the corners of her lips dipped downward, sad and sour, or perhaps disgusted—disappointed and stern.

Be you our sword, boy?

"Sir Isil?"

He turned, and his stare shifted to the caretaker. The old woman watched him, but her eyes were not cut from stone, and the lines of her face arose from age alone. She knelt by the feet of Edite, and Helesis had settled beside her, but unfamiliarity had stiffened the latter's form, and the rigidity gave rise to a painfully quiet awkwardness.

"Yes?" The pins sharpened his voice—cut it into jagged bits that tore themselves free of his mouth, and the taste they left was nearly like blood, but the caretaker merely arched a silver brow and nodded to an empty chair.

"Might you care to sit?" she inquired. She spoke lightly, softly, but her gentleness was unfit—misplaced at best, and callous if purposeful.

He straightened his spine, and a tightness grabbed hold of his tongue and wrapped its thin fingers about his voice. "No, thank you, Caretaker. I'd rather not."

A thought flickered in Druasis's dark eyes, but a frown alone, small and slight, light upon her lips, and without another word, she turned her cool gaze upon the goddess of wisdom. No concern colored her cheeks, nor did worry line her brow. She was the likeness of Edite: the eye of a storm, calm and collected and far above the trivial plights of mortals—the fear and the ire, and all the horror they bred.

The quiet of the temple pressed like stones down upon Isil's skull, and the pins dug into his neck and heels, but no sounds walked their way past the door and down that old long hall. Slow, soft murmurings rose from the caretaker, but her prayers would fall on deaf ears.

Orelus knew nothing of honor, and murder had burned like fire in his eyes. What would he say to the queen? What might he do?

What excuse had he in stealing her destiny?

Why had the gods done so little to stop him?

"If there be something chewing at you, Sir Knight, perhaps it would be prudent to speak on it," the caretaker began suddenly, "rather than allow it to fester."

Her voice was still quiet, but the clarity of her tone rang like a bell in the silence, and Isil's stare fled immediately to her. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him, and the press of her dark gaze was uncomfortably knowing. What did she think to see?

The sour taste infecting Isil's mouth grew, and the frown that pulled at his lips deepened almost to a scowl, but then, when he turned to face her, he felt something in his hand. His fingers had curled about the handle of his sword, and his grip was tight enough to ache.